


Glorious we transcend (into a psychedelic silhouette)

by ElixirBB



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Lots of Cursing, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Violence, mentions of abuse, nothing too graphic but still there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he sees her, she’s in the garden wearing a blue dress, a wildflower in her hand and swaying to the soft violin music floating from inside the party. He thinks he could love her then. AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glorious we transcend (into a psychedelic silhouette)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [broomclosetkink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/gifts).



The silence between them is deafening. He doesn’t say anything, finds that he can’t. All he does is stare at her, frowns when he sees her wince and watches as her fingers (small, dainty, fragile) barely touch the blooming purple bruise on her cheek. He won’t forget the sound of her voice, caught mid-scream in her throat and he remembers how his blood boiled to the surface with barely restrained rage and he doesn’t even remember beating that little blonde shit, all he remembers are hands (small, dainty, fragile) resting on his bicep, gently pulling him away from the bloodied heap on the ground. He remembers calming down (he always does when she’s around and he thinks it’s her eyes, her hair, the way she gnaws at her thumb in concentration, but fuck, the mere _glimpse_ of her, of his little bird, always seems to calm the travesty that lives and breathes and resides in his entire being), and how his breaths came through his nose and he vaguely remembers the pain exploding in his hand. He can hear the little shit’s cries and screams and threats that _this isn’t over. It won’t ever be over and I’ll kill her and make you watch, Dog._

 

(They’re empty threats. Everything about the Lannister’s are empty. And if there is someone, _anyone_ else, other than his brother he hates, it’s a Lannister.)

 

She moves gracefully in his apartment, opening cabinets and getting out the first aid kit, like she’s been here a hundred times before and he finds that his heart, his thundering heart, stops all together and starts again, but this time with a pain so intense, he closes his eyes.

 

He refuses to admit it, refuses to say it aloud, but fuck, all he’s done ever since he’s laid eyes on her is imagine her here, in his apartment, chewing absently at her lower lip as she makes herself at home (because she _knows_ , she _has_ to know, that his apartment has been and always will be, open for her. Only her. Only ever her.)

 

He hears her sigh and opens his eyes, taking in her figure standing at the sink, her hands gripping the countertop, her blue eyes (her eyes remind him of an ocean, clear and blue and seemingly endless in their enchantment) staring out the kitchen window. He can see a bowl of water and cloths, gauzes and bandages around her, but most of all he sees how her body (long and lean) trembles.

 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” She says to him softly, her voice hoarse from the silent sobs that engulfed her as he put her into his car and drove her to the only safe place he could think of in the moment. She turns her head and looks at him, the skin underneath her eye, already swelling with the force of the hit she took. “Joffrey…he’ll…the Lannister’s…they’ll…” she takes a deep breath and lets it out, her chest rising and falling with the motion and he finds himself entranced by her. “They’ll hurt you.” She says it just as softly and for the second time that night (the first watching her fall to the floor, hand to her cheek and fire in her eyes) his world stops.

 

He’s been with the Lannister’s for a long time and had they been better people, he may have considered them the family he never had. But they aren’t better people. _In fact, they’re probably the worst_ , Sandor thinks to himself. In all the years he’s been with them, in all the years he’s watched over Joffrey, he’s never once had the inclination to leave the life and brutality buried in him behind. It’s who he is. It’s who his brother made him to be and he never once questioned it.

 

Until Sansa Stark came barging into his life and blew it all to Hell.

 

(The first time he sees her, she’s in the garden wearing a blue dress, a wildflower in her hand and swaying to the soft violin music floating from inside the party. He thinks he could love her then and when she turns around and smiles shyly at him, murmuring out her well-taught apologies, he thinks, for one wild moment, that he may be good enough for her. But reality comes crashing down around him and he shakes all thoughts of nonsense from his head, he’s never been a dreamer, so instead he snaps and snarls and watches as the smile falls from her face and she hurries past him, never once looking back.)

 

He’s kept his eyes on her since then, watching her as she moves, legs taking her away from him (but never far enough). She smells like lemons and it’s _intoxicating_. Even now, sitting at his kitchen table and watching the turmoil flicker across her face, he can smell the faint traces of lemon and he wonders if she tastes the same.

 

He takes a deep breath, letting it out through his mouth, the sound alerting her and she turns her body and leans against the counter, her hip jutting into the edge. He wonders if it’s painful for her, wonders if it’ll leave a bruise (his fists clench and the skin grows tight across his knuckles and his wounds open again and start bleeding, but it’s nothing, he doesn’t feel anything, all he can think about is how there will be another bruise, come morning, marring her flesh.)

 

She lets out a small gasp, bundles the first aid kit and bowl of water in her arms and in two large steps, she’s there, easing herself into the chair in front of him and grabbing his hand, running her fingers over his knuckles, dipping the cloth into the bowl of warm water and washing away the blood from his hand.

 

_God,_ he thinks, _if she only knew how red they really are._

 

He wants to tell her to leave, he _needs_ her to leave because if she doesn’t, if she doesn’t stop touching him, he thinks he’s going to explode. He can feel something in his stomach twist and turn and he feels ill watching her delicately place bandages over his wounds (superficial ones, he’s had worse and with a humorless silent chuckle, he thinks back to when he was a child and his brother was well into the stages of his monstrosity and he remembers the smell of burning flesh and the heat of the fire as it welcomed him with open arms, forever leaving one side of his face a gnarled and burnt mess.)

 

“My siblings,” she says, her voice clearer but still soft, as if afraid of disrupting the dark musings in his head, “they always used to come home bruised and cut up.” She lets her thumb linger on the knuckle of his bandaged ring finger, “someone had to be able to fix them up.”

 

“Should be a nurse.” He says gruffly, his voice raspy and deep and he pretends not to notice the way her body shivers and the way her mouth falls open, just an inch.

 

She puts away his first aid kit and dumps the water in the sink. “I wanted to be a pediatrician,” she confesses.

 

He knows that. He knows everything about her.

 

Silence overcomes them again and this time Sandor doesn’t bother to hide the fact that he’s staring at her and is oddly surprised that she doesn’t hiding the fact that _she’s_ staring at _him_.

 

(It’s the longest she’s looked at him and he doesn’t know what to make of that.)

 

“Why did you help me?” She asks. She shakes her head, her red hair falling across her shoulders and down her back and not for the first time, Sandor wants to wrap his hands in the silky strands and lose himself in her. “You shouldn’t have…Joffrey will…” she trails off and fidgets, her feet shuffling against the linoleum floor.

 

“Fuck Joffrey.” He rasps. “Fuck the Lannister’s. Fuck them all.”

 

She lets out a bark of bitter laughter. It sounds foreign to his ears and the sound clenches around his chest. She shouldn’t sound like that. She shouldn’t be so tried and beaten and caged. He clenches his jaw and all he wants to do, all his body tells him to do is hunt Joffrey and all the Lannister’s down and _kill them all_.

 

But his Little Bird has seen enough violence. Has witnessed enough blood and hurt and tragedy in a world she thought she wanted to be in. _This,_ he wants to tell her, _is what money and power does to you. It kills you. It poisons you._

 

“Sandor,” she says, and with a start, he realizes it’s the first time he’s heard her say his name. She used to call him “sir” or “Mr.” until he told her to stop, he’s never been either and he doesn’t plan on starting. She doesn’t call him Hound, like so many others do. She doesn’t call him Dog, like Joffrey does. Instead, he realizes that she called him nothing. Which is why he finds it so puzzling at how his name floats from her lips like it belongs there (and it _does_ , he would give anything in the world to keep hearing her say his name, over and over, in laughter, anger, ecstasy, he’ll take it all.) “I’m scared.”

 

It’s her first admittance of fear and he applauds her courage (or her stupidity) for staying this long with a family and boyfriend who hate her and belittle her and her family every chance they get.

 

He’s heard the lies she’s chirped to her parents and siblings, about how she’s happy here; how Joffrey loves her; how Cersei is teaching her so much; how the California sun is brilliant and she’s on the beach every day…lies. All of them.  He can tell she’s miserable; Joffrey doesn’t love her, likely never has, instead, he’s only with her to make his father (who is never home, always drunk and always buried in a prostitute) happy; if Cersei teaches her anything, it’s how to be an emotionless, manipulative bitch; and other than school, she doesn’t go outside because they won’t let her.

 

(She’s trapped, his caged little bird.)

 

“Little Bird,” the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, “I could take you away. Anywhere. No one would come after us. If they do, I’ll kill them. I’ll kill everyone who tries to hurt you.” There is a sort of desperation that laces his voice and fuck him right to hell if he sounds like a little school boy.

 

She is silent for a few moments, hands wringing together and her bottom lip abused by her teeth.

 

He closes his eyes and tries to keep his temper, his rage beneath the surface. He should have known better. He’s never had anything worth something in his life, why did he suddenly think that Sansa _fucking_ Stark of all people would willingly go anywhere with him? He wants to laugh at her, wants to tell her to forget about it, forget about _all_ of it and go back to that piece of shit and the family that will one day kill her, he wants to knock some sense into her, he wants to shake her and tell her that he’ll put his life before hers. _Always._

 

“Will you take me home?” She breathes out.

 

His eyes snap open and he sees how she’s staring at him, her eyes wide with fear and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of exhilaration, a snippet of happiness that he hasn’t seen from her since the first day he saw her, in the garden, a wildflower in her hand and swaying to the distant violin music.

 

He nods, unable to say anything. Afraid to say anything.

 

(He’ll take her to the end of the earth. All she ever has to do is ask.)

* * *

He grabs only what he needs and empties out his bank account and then steals Sansa Stark in the dead of the night.

 

(He doesn’t breathe properly until he sees the _You are now leaving California_ sign. And then she laughs hard, gasping and hiccupping until tears stream down her face and her laughs turn into sobs.)

* * *

_One night, he comes across the Little Bird drunk. It’s endearing and amusing, if a little heartbreaking, watching her fall apart. She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head, only to groan. “How do you do it?” She asks, her voice slurring as he picks her up and quietly makes his way to her room._

_“I’m better at holding my liquor than you are.” He stares down at her in his arms and for the first time, realizes how tiny she is. “You’re small.” He nudges her door open and helps her stand, not willing to risk his head for going into her room. She stumbles, one hand reaching for the door and the other reaching for him. “How much did you have Little Bird?”_

_“Too much.” She moans and the sound goes straight through him and he knows he’s going to burn in hell for a very long time (but that’s okay because he figures that he’s well acquainted with flames.) She stares up at him through lidded eyes and smiles, her hand reaching out, her fingers (small, dainty, fragile) caressing the burnt side of his face._

_(Her touch sends shivers down his spine.)_

_His hand grabs her wrist and holds it in his hand. He doesn’t hold her tightly, the idea of hurting her making him ill to his stomach. “Don’t you know never to touch a dog? I bite girl.”_

_She’s silent, staring at him and then she shakes her head and looks him in the eye with far more resilience and grace than a drunk should have. “You won’t hurt me.” She states matter-of-factly._

_“No, Little Bird.” He says after a few seconds, “I won’t hurt you.”_

_He doesn’t hurt her, but he does leave her, hiding in the shadows until she stops looking down the hall, her eyes following the path he took and enters her room, softly closing the door behind her._

_The next morning, she goes back to her chirping and he assumes that she forgot about their exchange in the darkened hallway._

 

(She doesn’t. Forget that is.)

* * *

When he finally pulls into the driveway of her house, he can see her struggling to stay in her seat. He can feel the energy from her body and he watches, as soon as he puts the car in park, how she throws the car door open and runs to the front steps, where her mother has spilled from the house, her father and siblings in tow.

 

He hangs behind, getting out of the car and leaning against the hood of it and watches how Sansa cries and shakes and listens as _I love you’s_ tumble from her lips, her parents lips, her siblings lips and he listens as her sister tells her “I’m going to kill that sack of shit. I always knew he was a fuck-wad.”

 

(And despite the agreement from her brothers, despite the protests from her parents at the language, Sansa laughs and cries and agrees.)

 

_And this is it,_ he thinks, _I’m never going to see her again._

 

Maybe he’ll go south again, this time further down.

 

He nods to Ned Stark who thanks him and shakes his hand, patting his shoulder.

 

“Sandor should stay for dinner.” Sansa says and meets his eyes with a tilt of her head. “You’ll stay, won’t you?”

 

There is another meaning behind her words, ones that he’s not going to try and decipher. “Sure. Dinner sounds good.”

* * *

The next morning, he’s up before the sun rises. Keys in hand, he’s out of the guestroom before anyone in the house wakes. He plans to leave quietly, plans to get out of Sansa’s life before he ruins it (because he knows himself and he _knows_ that he _will_ ruin her and whatever plans for the future she may have for herself.)

 

Except, even the best laid plans, seem to have their faults, because Sansa is waiting for him by the door. She’s dressed casually, two duffle bags by her feet.

 

“What are you doing?” He asks her roughly.

 

“Going with you.”

 

“No.” He’s adamant in his answer, despite everything in his body and mind telling him to usher her out of the house before someone wakes and calls the police because a man nearly twice her age has taken her.

 

“I am.” She’s stubborn in her response.

 

“Your family-”

 

“They know.” She says, her eyes darting up the stairs and her face softens, “I told them you would be gone before anyone would wake up and that I couldn’t…I can’t…” She looks up at him, unshed tears in her eyes and he wants to punch the wall because she’s so beautiful is hurts. _It fucking hurts_. “If you don’t want me, I understand, I-”

 

“Shut up.” He hisses, grabbing her by the waist and pinning her against the door, he lets his arms drop and he leans against her, putting enough pressure against her body for her to feel him, but not enough to crush her. He still can’t stomach the thought of bruising her. He buries his head in the crook of her neck and with hesitant movements, he places his lips on her pulse and feels it jolt and thunder underneath his coarse and chapped lips.

 

_She tastes like lemons._

 

He’ll hurt her. He’ll break her. He’ll be her worst mistake and regret and he can’t _handle_ being that. “ _Sansa_.” He says.

 

She doesn’t say anything; instead, she shrugs his head off her shoulders and stares at him. Her hand reaches out, her fingers (small, dainty, fragile) caressing the burnt side of his face. “I remember this.” She murmurs. “I always remember this. You won’t hurt me.”

 

“No, Little Bird.” He repeats his words to her, his promise, “I won’t hurt you.” _But I’ll fucking kill anyone who does._

 

“Sandor, take me with you.”

 

He nods, unable to say anything. Afraid to say anything.

 

(He’ll take her to the end of the earth. All she ever has to do is ask.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! So…I’m super nervous and anxious and feel like I’m going to throw up because this is the first time I even attempt to write anything for ASOIAF but SanSan is my OTP and all of you guys have inspired me to write something because you’re all so brilliant and I can only ever wish to amount to any sort of greatness that you all hold and I’m just…I’m hoping that you’ll humbly accept my first ever foray into not only this fandom, but SanSan. I sincerely hope you all liked it. I know, it’s seriously AU and a little bit vague, but I purposefully kept it that way because it adds a little mystery…meh, really, I just wanted to do something from Sandor’s point of view and I’m terrified of it actually because they’re such hard characters to write and keep in character and I’M SO SORRY IF THIS IS A COMPLETE AND TOTAL PILE OF SHIT!!   
> Again, any and all mistakes and mine and mine alone and I know there are bound to be plenty.   
> I hope you have all enjoyed and I’ve got a lot planned for this couple, so hopefully, you’ve all liked my debut!


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